Last (Wo)men Standing

There is a moment after every storm when the world becomes strangely quiet.

The wind settles. The rain disappears.

The sky clears as if nothing ever happened.

But something has happened.

The landscape has shifted, even if only slightly, and the quiet that follows feels different from the quiet that came before.

Families have storms, too.

Not the loud kind with thunder and lightning.

The quieter kind that arrive one funeral at a time.

My aunt, brother, two cousins, and I have a group text titled

Last (Wo)men Standing.

It was meant to be a little humorous, the kind of dark humor families sometimes develop over time.

But the truth of it sits just beneath the surface.

Aside from our children, we are, quite literally, the last ones standing.

This Lent, we have begun a simple practice.

Three Sundays. Three cemeteries. Three stops in the long story of our family.

The plan is to visit the graves of those who came before us, attend Mass together, and share a meal afterward.

It sounds simple enough.

But standing in a cemetery has a way of crystallizing things.

Two Sundays ago, in addition to my great-grandparents and uncle, I went to my father’s grave for the first time since his funeral in November of 1997.

Twenty-eight years is a long time to stay away from a place.

Long enough that you wonder what it will feel like to return.

I was actually a bit nervous to go.

My relationship with my father was far from stellar, so I worried about the feelings that might surface when I saw his chiseled name.

I also told myself, he’s not there anyway, so why should I go?

When I stood there, it did not feel dramatic, traumatic, or useless.

It felt complete.

My aunt, the family matriarch now, was with me along with her daughters, my two crazy cousins.

My aunt is precious and priceless and lovely.

She carries so many family memories within her and generously shares them, even when it’s difficult.

We brought flowers to the tomb.

We stood there and talked for nearly an hour and a half.

That is a long time to stand in a cemetery, but when the people beside you are the only ones left who remember the same stories, the time passes quickly.

We talked about everything.

The causes of death.

The scandals.

The traumas that shaped us.

And the love that somehow held us together anyway.

We laughed.

No tears.

It was cold and windy, which is uncommon in New Orleans, so it almost felt like our ancestors were nudging us together and giving us a reason to huddle close.

Families are rarely as tidy as the headstones suggest.

At one point, we decided to take a picture.

It seemed important to capture the moment, even if the photograph itself may be too personal to ever share publicly.

Trying to fit all of us into the frame turned into a project.

My arm is only so long.

We laughed the entire time as we tried to squeeze into the picture.

One cousin ended up with a wet rear end from sitting on damp concrete.

Another ended up with white cemetery dust smeared across the back of her clothes.

I avoided both hazards by sitting on the wet cousin’s lap, which kept me perfectly dry and my clothes pristine.

“Hahah, suckers!” I told my cousins as they dealt with their cemetery mess.

Even in a cemetery, families remain themselves.

Standing there among the stones, it became clear that we were a small but mighty group.

We are the ones who still remember them.

And we will honor each of them in our own way.

One day, every family reaches a moment when the number of people who remember the beginning grows very small.

Sadly, survivor’s guilt is a real thing.

Afterward, we went to lunch, as planned.

My grilled chicken salad contained two unexpected and disgusting hard pieces, which practically ruined the meal for me.

And those hard pieces reminded me that life refuses to stay solemn for very long.

That day, and for two more Sundays, the four of us will hold space for our past.

Lent is the right season for this kind of remembering, right?

The Church reminds us during these forty days that life is temporary.

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

But standing there among the graves did not feel morbid.

It felt more like keeping watch.

Someone has to remember.

Someone has to say the names.

Someone has to tell the stories.

The graves mark where our family rests.

Our memories mark who they were.

Our lives mark where they continue.

We have two more Sundays left in our little Lenten pilgrimage.

Two more cemeteries.

Two more chances to stand together and remember the people who made us possible.

This Sunday, we plan to attend Mass at my church before our next cemetery visit.

I told them I’m excited for them to see it.

It’s my church, after all. "My home."

And I don’t want the first time they see it to be at my funeral!

They laughed, but they felt what I meant.

And the group text still carries the same slightly irreverent title.

Last (Wo)men Standing.

But maybe that phrase means something more than we first intended.

Being the last ones standing is not only about loss.

It is also about responsibility.

Someone has to remember.

Someone has to say the names.

Someone has to tell the stories.

And as long as someone is still standing to do that, the story isn’t finished.

We’re still standing.

And it is quite the honor and a privilege to do so.